


linger in silence (or its absence)

by konvalija



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 15:19:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10879521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/konvalija/pseuds/konvalija
Summary: Silence after the Fall.





	linger in silence (or its absence)

Castiel thinks he has been alone for too long.

He doesn’t mean lonely, not really. Castiel knows loneliness, it has ingrained itself into his Grace, squeezed into cracks in his chassis, nested deep between his vessel’s ribs. As an angel, as a human, with his brothers and sisters, with Hannah, with Dean, on his own, doesn’t matter, it lurks in dark corners of his being, waiting, resting, motionless, pointless, snuggled against his thoughts, pawing against corners of its cage. Yes, Castiel knows loneliness, he made his peace with it being an essential part of him, there is no Castiel without his loneliness.

But in all his existence he’s never been alone. 

Angels are not solitary creatures. Neither are they social creatures. Castiel has never felt the need to explain their nature to outsiders but now if he had to, he’d say that angels simply are. Present, that’s what they are, their being is what defines them, from what they are within themselves to what they are to this world. Constantly on each other minds, silent, unobtrusive but always there, ready to interfere, respond to a call, since his very first moments of existence that’s what Castiel could count on, Heaven or Earth, with or without a vessel, he would always know what his siblings is at. 

It went farther then that, though. Their Father cared to wove his children into his greatest creation, scatter their presence all over it, put starts and oceans inside every single one of them, paint tectonic structures and magnetic field lines on their skin, leave inactive volcanoes beneath it as a constant reminder of the greatness of their identity.

He raises his hand to get a proper look at it. Small scars from his brief time as a human are more visible in the bright beach sun than usually. With his Grace back he could heal them in the nick of time but he thinks traces left after eruption are what makes it meaningful.

Humans say that butterfly flapping its wings in New Mexico causes a hurricane in China. This oversimplification of one of the many ideas that help them understand creation may mean nothing to most: surely there are more logical concepts concerning hurricanes, which butterfly flapped its wings unspecified period of time before isn’t really one of them, now, is it?

Castiel could agree with them. He doesn’t believe Father thought of leaving interpretation clues all over the Earth for its inhabitants to make something of, the work shouldn’t need the artist to explain itself, surely the whole point of its existence is to be discovered again and again, until it gets buried under the weight of generations it baffled. Thus, no theory is wrong and Castiel could agree with them but what stops him is that butterfly flapping its wings across the globe to the rhythm of thunderstorm on the other side of it.

Sometimes, he wishes he didn’t know. Other times, he’s glad he does.

The worst part of being left Graceless was the silence. Stunning, stupefying, omnipresent silence seemed to form a cloak covering him, cutting off his senses to the point where he started wondering if he even had them at all, maybe the Fall damaged his vessel? He’s not sure whether the truth that this was it, that’s where his path was leading him the whole time was better or worse than being left with nothing from both sides. Is complete deprivation a mercy compared to a poor substitute?

But now. Oh, now he can feel and hear and taste so much, the pain, the misery, the laughter, the anger, dynamics and statics, changes, seeming stability, all the small details his Father has put into his work, every little place where it clicks, or on the contrary, conflicts and he should be suffocating with the power of it, should he not? He spent so much time surrounded by that web of silence and now he should feel like all this is too much, he knows he should but he doesn’t, he feels light and atmosphere, he is light and atmosphere and fire licking his bones and he can smell ozone more clearly than ever before and for the first time in a very long while he feels like Castiel, like he reunited with his dearly beloved after a long time apart.

Oh, how he missed this part of himself. He can feel it shifting and accommodating so everything fits neatly against each other, cracks and sharp edges finding their place and he smiles.

“What’s so funny, Cas?”

Cas opens his eyes to meet green ones, glittering with calm joy and affection.

“Nothing in particular, Dean.”


End file.
